


Teenage Dirtbag

by Space_gays_that_arent_in_space



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Background Kurloz Makara, Background Relationships, Both of them are black because I said, Catholic Guilt, Catholic Rosary, Catholic School, Childhood Friends, Childhood Memories, Frottage, Gamzee Paints karkat because he loves him, Hand Jobs, Heavy Petting, Human Gamzee, Human Karkat Vantas, Humanstuck, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Introspection, Karkat Hates Himself, Karkat Swearing, M/M, Minor Gamzee Makara/Tavros Nitram, POV Gamzee Makara, POV Second Person, Painting, Priests, Religion, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sad Gamzee, Self-Indulgent, Trans Karkat Vantas, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:28:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27057973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Space_gays_that_arent_in_space/pseuds/Space_gays_that_arent_in_space
Summary: ”Forgive me father, for I have motherfuckin sinned.”You take your rosary into your hand and clutch it tight. You run your fingers over the intricate patterns carved into the beads and think of all your sins. It’s a sin that you failed your math test last Friday, it’s a sin that you got Tavbro to partake in your miraculous pies.”I’ve done fallen all up in love with my best brother,”It is a sin that you are so miraculously, deeply in love with your best friend in the world.You love him so much that it makes your chest ache, you love him so much that your every moment together is made of so many miracles that you have to wonder if there is something better than the messiah himself and if that something is right in front of you. You remember when you thought you were in love with Tavbro, it was in middle school and you felt both a sense of shame and electric excitement. You wanted to wheel him everywhere, help him with his books, do anything you could to be around him. You remember how desperately in love he was-is-with Vriska. How your tiny little kid heart seemed to break and how your best friend took you into his arms and let you cry about it.
Relationships: Gamzee Makara & Karkat Vantas, Gamzee Makara/Karkat Vantas
Comments: 8
Kudos: 65





	Teenage Dirtbag

**Author's Note:**

> First Homestuck fic and it's for my favorite set of moirails. Next up is Karkat relationship bingo lmao

You motherfucking love him. 

He is art, and wonder, and everything a motherfucking miracle should be. He’s a miracle wrapped in fairydust and fuck if you’re not ready to snort all of him up and become a dream. He would call you some seamless stream of insults if he ever found out you thought that about him, but at the very same time he would flush high red up in his cheeks. 

You want to kiss him. 

You are Gamzee Makara and Karkat Vantas is your best friend, and you love him. 

You’re looking at him in the library when you think of this, your head full of weed and a slow grin on your face. He’s sitting beside you, studying for some class that you’re failing. You are staring at his profile as he does. The way his nose wrinkles when he gets really focused, how his lips are chapped from refusing any offerings of vaseline you offer him, how his hair flies in directions so wild it looks like he picked them himself. You’ve been drawing him for the last hour and you can’t tell if he’s being still because of it. It wouldn’t be surprising if he did know. Karkat knows motherfucking everything especially when it comes to you. 

He is a well and you want to pour miracle water into him until he’s overflowing. 

He finally turns to you and sneers. You smile even bigger and, with your left arm, cover your sketch. The only classes you’re passing are art and religion, you plan to use this piece for both. He squints at you then, like you’ve offended him by deciding not to share with the class. You want to laugh, and you do. His face scrunches up entirely. 

”What the fuck are you doing?” His voice scratches the little something in your brain that it always does. It is a little motherfucking miracle in and of itself, but isn’t every aspect of him? 

”Just workin’ on something brother, don’t worry,” You push yourself up, careful of your drawing, and pat him on the head. “I oughta be up and taking my motherfucking leave and all that, got a special appointment” 

He looks confused until he sees the time, and suddenly his face settles into that regular old lovable scowl of his. 

Every day during your study hall, at exactly 12:58pm, you get up and head to the Chapel on Campus, fingering your rosary your big brother gave you the whole way. This sort of thing, the thing in which you are terribly smitten with Karkat, should be seen as the least miraculous thing in the world to most. You’re sure you would have thought that if not for the miracle that is big brother Kurloz. He had explained to you a long time ago, around the time your were 13 and he was 17, that dating guys couldn’t upset god since he was the one who made it so that guys can fuck each other. You don’t remember the why behind it really, just that he and big bro Mituna had just gotten together at the time and he seemed set on pushing it into your thinkpan. Mostly at that time though, you were worried about whether or not Kurloz would still be able to get you weed even with being so heavily involved with Mituna’s therapy schedule. 

You got it now though, you understand exactly why Kurloz had told you what he had when he had. He is a miracle too, though a miracle of an entirely different kind. He sees what’s going to happen before it does, he is an oracle. You remember some guys of a different church trying to convince him to join them, and he how they kept saying that he would be praised as their great prophet. You remember watching your big brother beat the shit out of some guys for speaking blasphemy against the messiah. Kurloz Makara is not a model catholic for most, but to you he is the most perfect kind. 

You walk into the chapel, and the smell of incense fills you up with a sense of joy. You take the chance to pull out your sketchpad and look over the drawing. It isn’t your best work, not when Karkat spent so much time side eyeing you. You set it off to the side on top of one of the pews and head straight for the confessional. You carry things on your shoulders that you cannot mention, at least, not to your friends, but here is different. 

Here, you rest your secrets at your feet and feed them through the little holes in the wall here. You like it best when the priest isn’t here, if only so you know that there is no one but the messiah himself to hear you. When you look into the darkness, you don’t see any movements, and you feel yourself smile. You settle in the wooden seat and look to the sky. 

”Forgive me father, for I have motherfuckin sinned.” 

You take your rosary into your hand and clutch it tight. The beads are black and white and purple and gold, and every time you look at it you feel something warm spark in your heart. You run your fingers over the intricate patterns carved into the beads and think of all your sins. It’s a sin that you failed your math test last friday, it’s a sin that you got Tavbro to partake in your miraculous pies. 

”I’ve done fallen all up in love with my best brother,” 

It is a sin that you are so miraculously, deeply in love with your best friend in the world. 

You love him so much that it makes your chest ache, you love him so much that your every moment together is made of so many miracles that you have to wonder if there is something better than the messiah himself and if that something is right in front of you. You remember when you thought you were in love with Tavbro, it was in middle school and you felt both a sense of shame and electric excitement. You wanted to wheel him everywhere, help him with his books, do anything you could to be around him. You remember how desperately in love he was-is-with Vriska. How your tiny little kid heart seemed to break and how your best friend took you into his arms and let you cry about it. 

”He makes me all...forgettin ‘n shit about my problems” 

He makes you forget about how lonely your living can be. When you’re with him you forget all about the things with your dad and your brother. How you haven’t talked to your dad in years and how Kurloz hasn’t spoken a word without the assistance of his electrolarynx in longer and how you had to learn sign language at age 8 because he couldn’t quite get the hang of the damn thing for almost half a year. He helps you forget that your grades are too bad to let you into the art show even though it’s all you’ve wanted since freshman year. He is your muse, moonlight and stardust lit on fire and pressed into the prettiest gem you’ve ever seen in your motherfucking life. He is perfection in every sense of the word, and in every moment that he hates himself you try to love him twice as much to make up for it. 

”I wanna kiss him” 

You want to kiss him so bad that sometimes, when you’re laying up in your bed with him right beside you watching one of his romcoms that he so loves, you think of pulling his face toward yours. You think of kissing him breathless and smearing your greasepaint on him and making him _yours_. 

”He’s a fuckin miracle” 

You feel something on your face and when you wipe it, you get a smear of wet white. You don’t know when you started crying, or when your rosary formed these little divots in your skin, but you feel a sort of weight lift off your shoulders. At least someone knows, someone somewhere knows how much you love him, even if it isn’t the man of the hour. You sigh, and you can feel the love smashing into your chest, constricting your breathing and climbing up your throat like it wants, more than anything, to escape. 

You return your rosary to your pocket and leave the confessional. When you return to where you left your things, you are struck with the desire to work on the sketch more. It looks nice, sort of. It’s smudged in places, and a little messy, but you can feel Karkat’s spirit flooding it when you see the look on his face. The chapel is where you stay for the next few hours, right until afternoon mass is supposed to start. That’s how he finds you, sketchbook tucked under your legs and half awake. It’s between only you and the lord if you took a nap in there. 

Karkat sits beside you. Religion is something the two of you have highly different opinions on, he doesn’t see the world as its many miracles. No, Karkat is the sort of person who only acknowledges the pain of the world, and you love him for even that. You love him for it because you know that in that heart of his, a heart so big that it comes pouring out of him constantly, he wants to fix all the wrongs. You hold his hand throughout mass, even though you know you could very well get kicked out for it. His hands are so so small compared to yours, so small and so hot. It makes you smile, and every few moments he squeezes you back, and you feel your heart squeeze up at the same time. 

Really, you can barely pay attention. Your every prayer is centered around him, like he’s your breath, like he’s your sight, like he’s everything in the world and then you realize. Today is the day. It washes over you like the waves on the shore. It is a brief clarity. You turn to him and he gives you that cursory glare that you’ve grown to love in over a decade worth of friendship. 

”What is it now?” His snarl is a whisper, so as to not be sent out for what should be the eighth time this month. 

”You should come all up over today, Kurloz is gonna be out and it’s gonna be real motherfucking lonely,” 

He thinks for a moment, like he’s considering whether or not he plans to say yes. He will. He always does. He knows that when Kurloz is gone there isn’t much to do and it makes you more paranoid than ever, and the self medicating gets worse than even you can admit to yourself. He knows because he knows you. He knows because he loves you. He knows because he is your brother and the person you trust with your life. 

He groans, “Fine, but you better have food in your fridge this time or else I’m going to shove my foot so far up your impudent clown ass that your honks will be distinctly underscored with a fit of hacking so strong that not even a mechanical fucking ventilator will be able to keep you from suffocating with the absolute power of my toes jabbing into your lungs” 

Karkat gets sent out because, in the midst of his rant, he got too loud. His exit was marked by him saying “Oh fuck me.” 

Karkat is coming over later. 

Mass is a fog after that, and you feel a piping hot, biting sort of guilt coiling up in your gut. You are a man of few commitments, but the few you have are ones you clutch close to your heart with the utmost intensity. You want to apologize to the priests, tell them that you had not meant to get all up and caught in Karkat and his miracles, but they are none the wiser. Even still, you stay behind and pray, make promises to the messiah that you’ll pay better attention next time and tell of how many miracles you see coming true today with Karkat. 

You’re late to art by the time that you’re done praying. The teacher doesn’t seem to mind as you slither up into your seat. You look at the Karkat you drew, really look at him. You’ve been fucking with this motherfucking sketch for about four days, ever since you teacher asked you all to come up with a painting that means something to you. It had been a hard choice to make, hard in the sense that there are so many little miracles to you, so many things that you love and find meaning in, but it’s him. It has always had to be him. It has to be him because you’ve known him since you were in the motherfucking first grade and he has never been anything but the very best to you. It’s a front facing profile of him, his face scrunched up as he stares into the bible, there’s going to be red everywhere, you decide. 

Red coming from his eyes and all over his hands and in the halo above his head. It seeps right into the Bible he’s holding, staring down at with the same sort of intensity that he has whenever he reads one of his romance novels. His hair is wild underneath his halo. The background is flames, the very same that he is made of. He will burn underneath the weight of his sins, you know this. You want it to be him, but your religion project asked for something that this art cannot be allowed to have. If you make it Karkat then he'll face more Hell from the priests than he already does. 

You spend the period refining the sketch with practiced ease. You relearn the lines and plains of your best friend’s face all over again and think of what you’ll do tonight. You plan to tell him how you feel, there really isn’t anything motherfucking more for you to do. You’ve never been the type of guy who could hold his feelings in, especially not the feeling that things are miracles. You hadn’t been able to do it with Tavbro and you most certainly won’t be able to do it now. 

When you bold out the lines for the final drawing, you accidentally over mark one of his eyes, and a part of you can’t help but feel like it’s a sign. 

You meet Karkat at his locker, backpackless and high as fuck, you ate most of an edible right after art class and it’s just finally starting to kick in. He looks beaten down and exhausted, he had gym today. He always looks like that right after gym because the teacher just loves beating his tiny, asthmatic motherfucking ass. He goes all drill sergeant up on the students who are least fit to handle it, and he’s the reason you only participate on dodgeball days. Karkat looks thankful that you took the backpack, like you don’t do it every time you two are together. 

Karkat goes on a verbose motherfucking rant about how gym went and you nod along. You aren’t listening though, and as bad as you feel about it, you have more miraculous thoughts knocking around in your thinkpan. Miraculous thoughts of greater importance than Mr. Dickwipe’s lap running and weight lifting. Karkat can tell you aren’t listening, you know that he can tell because his ranting has gotten slower and instead of his face being all scrunched up in rage he looks confused. 

He stops for a moment and nearly tries to say something, but before he can you’re pointing out your house on the horizon like it’s the first time. It’s so close to the school that it might as well be on the vast ass property. He shuts up then, quiet and contemplative. You need to make your move soon. As soon as possible, preferably, as soon as you get into the house, you decide. You’ll kiss Karkat on the mouth right when you get into the house. 

Unlocking the door is harder than usual, your hands shouldn’t be shaking with how gone you are and yet they are, they’re trembling terribly and at this point you know that Karbro is totally freaked out. Somehow, someway, you use your keys and the keypad to get into the house, and the moment you do you breathe in the scent of lavender. 

Brother Kurloz isn’t gonna be back until the smell becomes so faint that Mituna can pick it up and won’t be overwhelmed by it. You have a few hours. 

You turn to Karkat now. He looks stunned, and a little afraid. 

”Gamzee what the fuck is-” 

You grab him by the face and kiss him. Smear your gray greasepaint on the brown of his face, you kiss him and his mouth is slack and the stunnedness overcomes the fear tenfold. You want to grin but there’s a strong sense of foreboding in your gut. You aren’t out of the woods yet and you know it. 

”I decided to all up and paint you for that motherfucking art project, the one about the miracles we care about n shit like that. Gonna use it for religion too,” It pours out like breath, and suddenly that weight that’s always on your shoulders both becomes heavier and nonexistent. 

Karkat is absolutely silent before you, and your brain itches to feel the scratch of his voice in those deep nooks and crannies that it always seems to reach without any sort of effort. You want to hear him curse, or cry, or speak in that scary calm voice he gets when he has to talk to those Ampora brothers. Anything but this silence, anything but the quiet that leaves your mind buzzing in a way that weed can never quite calm. You take your lip into your mouth, tasting the grey greasepaint smeared there, it tastes like sweet cardboard and a little like spit. You’re still watching Karkat, who’s watching you, and suddenly he launches all of his tiny form up at you. 

His arms are around your neck and his legs are around your waist. Karkat his always been small, especially so when compared to you. 5’4 to your 6’6, but he’s stocky, and he drags you down like he’s a meteorite falling to earth. He’s a shooting star, a miracle, a _dream_ , and he’s _kissing you_. Right here, right now, in the foyer of your motherfucking house. You manage to regain your balance, just barely. You struggle your way into the living room and flop on to the couch. Karkat is under you now and you know that the paint on your face is smeared and getting into your hair with the way his hands move so fervently from your cheeks to your hair over and over again. He pulls at the tight knots and coils where he can and you wince a little even though the pain is exquisite. 

Karkat is whining, panting beneath right into you. You make his breath your own then, and in these few short moments you have learned his mouth like it is your own, like it has been something you’ve known for decades upon centuries upon millenia. You think about reincarnation and heaven when you feel his lips move to your face, they’re wet with spit and his breath is hot against your skin. You two have done something like this before, your brain tells you. Somewhere in another life your passion for his miracles was ignited just the same and you wanted nothing more than to eat the flesh of his beating heart and feel his blood underneath your skin. You press your skin against his so close that you truly have to wonder if maybe the two of you can become one, 

And he _groans_. 

You don’t remember becoming slotted like this, with your genitals pressed up right against each other in a way so perfect that you know it, too, is a miracle. You try to pull away, but Karkat’s mouth follows you, and when you look at him his brown skin is marred by white and grey all over. You feel something like a match-like a forest fire-strike inside of you. Suddenly, you want him in a way that is nothing but the most carnal of way. You want him like you want to breathe, like you want to eat, like you want to be happy and see the messiah and hear your brother’s voice again without the buzz of the electrolarynx behind it. You want this-him like you want things that are both too simple and too complex for even yourself to understand. 

You stare at him for a long time, huffing out breaths as you watch Karkat meet your gaze. His eyes are rubies, so deep in their brown that they turn red. You love him for it. 

You motherfucking love him. 

You motherfucking love him so motherfucking much. 

You motherfucking love this motherfucking miracle so motherfucking much. 

”I motherfucking love you more than I love the great messiah who will bring calamity upon us, Karbro” 

You see something like worry and like that same carnal sort of _need_ click behind his eyes. He pulls you down on top of him again and his lips hit you harder than the last time and you cannot help but wonder what you have done or did to deserve holiness like this. He busies himself with pulling your sweatpants around your thighs. You’re hard, harder than you’ve ever been in all your years on this earth and then some. You kiss him back and try to peel off his jeans from skin that it seems to insist upon being superglued to. You want to tear them off, break them just so that the two of you have a greater chance getting to the miracle that is so close to the horizon. 

You take his bottom lip between your teeth and suck hard. He lets out a mewl that makes you rub your bare dick right against his jeans and the friction is the most incredible sensation you have ever felt in your life. 

Finally, _finally_ his pants come sliding down his thighs and you can see the wet patch forming in his boxers. Suddenly, you’re sent back to about the fifth grade, when Karkat told you a secret. He told you that he was a boy, and you remember the distinct sort of fear on his face. The fear that you only got to see when you entered the sixth grade and he saw you two weren’t together, the sort of fear you saw during roll calls with substitutes, the sort of fear that made you sure to crack jokes and ask questions as loud as you could in order to get the attention off of him and on to you instead. You remember how your very best sister became your best brother, and you remember how vulnerable he looked when it happened. There’s a similar look on his face now, a nervousness that is so rare that you often forget that it exists within him. 

You move your attention away from his lower half and instead look back up at him, look at the vulnerability on his face, and you kiss it away. You kiss him like he’s going to burn away, bright and hot and fast because he is a shooting star just the same as he has always been. He is made of miracles and light and justice and rage and hate. 

It is in that kiss that you two find a rhythm, one punctuated by little ruts and rolls of the hips. Your dick chafing in the best way at the wetness of the cotton. It’s you who takes action this time though. You grab his hand, finally pulling away from another long, wet kiss, to lick it. You cover his hand in your saliva and put it right on your dick. For as bold and brash as he had been just a few moments ago, Karkat is suddenly flustered, staring at the way the spit from your mouth looks on your dick. You buck slightly into his hand, pressing kisses to his jaw that no longer leave paint streaks against his skin. He gets the message then, and moves his hand slowly up the shaft. You feel electricity climb up your back, lighting off little sparks against your vertebrae. 

Your hand slides its way into his pants and you can feel how hot he is. You want him in your mouth, you want him in your arms, you want him _on your dick_. You want him however you can have him and it doesn’t matter the motherfuck how. 

That’s when it strikes you. 

You pull off Karkat’s boxers completely and you dumbly realize that now he’s going to leak all over the couch. It doesn’t matter though, cushions can always be cleaned, and you’re sure Kurloz has done worse on this very same couch. You kiss Karkat on the mouth again, and it is with that kiss that you seal your addiction to his lips. Even if though you knew it at the door, you knew it when you looked at the way he bit at the tips of his fingers, you knew it in so many ways that you had never chosen to take notice of, you take this kiss as your assurance. No one will ever kiss you better than Karkat. 

It is with that revelation that you slot him against you, hot and wet and leaking all over you dick. The moan you let out is guttural, unholy. It is the promise of sin- of falling in the very best of ways. You rock up against him, making it a point not to slide inside. You can feel Karkat roll his hips against you. That is how you get off with each other. With each roll and slide of the hips you can feel jolts in your legs and up your spine and all over your body. You’re drunk on his kisses. You want to bare your throat to him, begging for an absolute motherfuckin mercy that only his touch, miracle that it is, can bring. 

Karkat’s whole body is on fire, he’s burning you up inside and out. With each kiss, there is the promise that it won’t be the last. There is the promise within him that he’s just as addicted to your kisses, addicted to your touch, as you are his. That is the thought that you cum to, as Karkat’s legs tighten around you and his nails bite into your shoulders and his mouth trembles against yours. He bucks his hips up one last time, shoddy and entirely desperate, and only belatedly do you realize that you both came all over the couch. 

You watch as he shakes and trembles, sweat dripping down his forehead. You kiss him one last time, a little spot of greasepaint right on the corner of his mouth. You abandon your sweats on the floor when you stand and focus on getting something for you both to drink. You return to the living room with a sopping wet cloth and a half drunk carton of oj. 

Karkat seems to have regained his faculties by the time that you come back. He looks sheepish. When you offer him the cloth he refuses to look at you, instead focusing on the mess on his thighs and on his sweater. 

”Karbro if you be needing a-” He cuts you off before you can finish. Well, finish a second time. 

”Just-just shut _up_ for a minute, alright. At least let me clean myself off and figure out what the hell this,” He motions between the two of you and to both sets of pants on the floor “means” 

You frown, sitting your ass down on the couch beside him. 

”Well, what do you want it to mean?” It’s the only question you can ask now, feelings laid bare like they always are between the two of you. 

”I-I don’t _know_?! I mean, we’ve been best friends since we were six fucking years old and now I practically fucked you on your couch!!” His voice is more shrill than usual, and on instinct you rub your hand into his hair. 

”Shoosh Karbro, just think about whether it was all motherfucking enjoyable for you,” 

Karkat pauses and visibly flusters even more, “It was fine. I guess. Not bad. Good, even.” 

You stare at him. 

He stares back. 

He breaks. 

”Fine! It was one of the best fucking orgasms I’ve ever had in my miserable life and it’s being made worse because it had to be with the absolute fucking imbecile of a fucking clown that I call my best friend and I’m worried that if I act on these feelings of….whatever! That I’m having it’ll do nothing but ruin things between them when they inevitably go south because my life is nothing but shit luck!” 

You pull him up against your chest, goosebumps lining your thighs as a gust of wind moves with him. You press him into your chest and rub at his back, shooshing him as you feel the muscles in his body slowly relax. 

”Ain’t nothing like that ever gonna motherfucking happen Karbro. I love you too much to let you go, even if this miraculous loving doesn’t work out” 

Karkat sighs against you, mumbling something into your chest. 

”You wanna get all dressed and go watch one of your romcoms” 

He nods and that’s all you need to carry him upstairs over your shoulder. He’s a lot lighter like this for some reason, maybe because you prepared more for it, or maybe it’s because you’re used to carrying things over your shoulders. 

You two clean up and redress, and when you turn on the movie you get the chance to look at him without limitations. You get to look at the freckles smattered near his sideburns and the moles on his right collar bone. You get to kiss the plush of his mouth and study each scar on his knuckles. You hold him with an intimacy that is reserved to lovers only, and you feel a sense of peace so great that there is nothing more that could bring you happiness. 

You love him. 

He is art, and wonder, and everything a motherfucking miracle should be. He’s a miracle wrapped in fairydust and fuck if you’re not ready to snort all of him up and become a dream. He would call you some seamless stream of insults if he ever found out you thought that about him, but at the very same time he would flush high red up in his cheeks. 

You get to kiss him whenever you want. 

You are Gamzee Makara and Karkat Vantas is your best friend, and you motherfucking love him. 

And he loves you the motherfuck back.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi kudos, comments, etc are greatly appreciated and there is a 99% chance that if you comment I'll reply.
> 
> @tamyura_on twt  
> @porcelain_babies on insta


End file.
